Page 18 of Fighting for You
“No, this was all, but...” he starts as he shuffles through a stack next to him. “I did forget—ah-ha! Here it is. I forgot to give this to y’all when you were here.” He’s holding out a manila folder, my parents’ names written on the corner.
“Right. Thanks,” I say as I take it from him, shoving my copy of the deed I just signed into it. “I’ll see myself out then.”
I go to turn around when he stops me. “Hugh—”
I cut him off, “Brooks. No one calls me Hugh.”
“My apologies, Brooks. I just want to extend my condolences once more about your parents. I heard the man responsible for the accident was charged with a DUI and prison time. I’m glad y’all are getting some justice after this tragedy.”
The appropriate response would be to say “thank you” or agree with him about the drunk who ran a red light and caused my life to upend in an instant. Instead, I just stare at him. I’m not sure what to say, it all feels too complicated. My relationship with my parents wasn’t rainbows and fucking butterflies. They consistently let me know how much of a disappointment I am. I stayed. I was here. And yet, I was the son who was told howmuch of a letdown he’d become. It was all bullshit. I’d been willing to give up everything for their stupid fucking restaurant while Carrington was off in Seattle pretending none of us existed.
And yeah, I am bent out of shape about their deaths. I can’t remember the last thing I said to my mother, and that shit haunts me. We’d been so close when I was a kid. It wasn’t until she sided with my father about my “unrealistic aspirations” that things changed. Then I watched as she let the same thing happen with Cary. And I understood why. She didn’t want to be on the receiving end of Owen Grant’s temper. He’d never been physically abusive, but he could be a mean son of a bitch—not to mention as close-minded as they come.
Ironically, the only soft spot he seemed to have was for Thea. It was some kind of unspoken agreement that none of us told her what he’d thought of her years ago before she and Cary left for Seattle. When she came back to care for her mom, Lydia, he’d somehow turned over a new leaf. I never understood it, and quite frankly, I never asked. A part of me wondered if he thought being nice to Thea would make Cary come back. Joke’s on him since he only came back when they died, only to leave again.
Still not knowing what to say, I nod, turn around, and walk out. The last thing I want to discuss is my parents’ death and the man responsible for it. What I want and need is a drink and a smoke.
Lucky for me, Southbury has just the kind of hole-in-the-wall bar I need. It’s the same place Cary and I came after the readingof the will. I’m sitting in the same booth, thinking back on the conversation we had that day. He’d been so dense, thinking he understood why I was upset about our parents leaving RED to him and Thea.
It felt good to take him down a peg or two, remind him how his move to Seattle affected all of us. And it felt good to witness him realize how selfish he’d been as a kid who never saw anything past his own issues, wants, and needs. I can’t say it wasn’t amusing to watch him finally realize we had two very different upbringings in real time. Cary got away with everything as a kid, while I was punished and lectured for every move I made. I never knew why, and I never had the balls to ask before my parents’ untimely death.
I pull my glass to my lips just as I hear a voice that instantly makes my blood boil. Colton is with John and Trevor—or Tweedle Dipshit and Tweedle Dumbass, as I call them—at his side, sliding up to the bar and already hitting on the bartender.
Not ten seconds later, Tweedle Dumbass turns around and sees me. He wastes no time whispering into Colton’s ear like a fucking schoolgirl. I’m already having a shit day. The last thing I need is to deal with these assholes.
“Save it,” I say from my booth the moment Colton turns around.
“I was just going to ask if losing to me meant you quit. Haven’t seen you at The Pit since that night. Didn’t take you for such a chickenshit.”
My eyes roll. I hate this dude. “Just been busy, Colton. Some of us have lives.” That’s a lie. I don’t exactly have a life, but I’m not about to tell him I’ve been too busy nursing a bruised ego to ask for another fight.
“Sure, sure. Working at your dead parents’ restaurant as what… a busboy?”
“Your uppercuts are better than your insults.” He thinks pointing out my dead parents will get a reaction out of me, takes a lot more than stating the obvious.
“Whatever you say,Brooksy Boy.”
I instantly see red again. I’m pissed he knows the nickname gets to me. I’m even more pissed he knows why. I slowly get up, walking toward him without saying a word. Once I’m in his face, I lean in farther so we’re chest to chest, and my mouth is right beside his ear as I say, “Call me that one more fucking time, and I’ll put you six-feet-under right next to my parents.” I punctuate my threat by quickly grabbing his head and slamming it onto the bartop. “I fucking dare you, Colton.”
Tweedle Dipshit jumps up, spilling his beer. “Dude, what the fuck?” he screams as blood seeps from the corner of Colton’s lip. He wastes no time, and before I know what’s happening, he headbutts me while mumbling something about me being outnumbered.
“You’ll pay for that one, Grant,” Colton says. My vision is slightly blurry now, thanks to his crony. Colton spits blood onto the bar, a smirk playing on his lips like he can’t wait for his retribution as if Dipshit didn’t just take care of it for him.
“Sure thing, Riley,” I mutter, shooting him a middle finger. I’m about to turn around and leave when I hear someone clear their throat from behind me, and the mirror on the barback tells me I’m fucked.
“I’m gonna need you to come with me, son,” says the deputy I didn’t realize was in the bar with us.
“Fuck me,” I mumble to myself as I turn to face him.
“Let’s go.”
“Any chance you’d believe it was self-defense?” I try to joke, hoping it’ll charm him into letting me go and pretending he didn’t see anything.
“You can plead your case when we book you,” he replies, unfazed. Taking a deep breath, I pull my hands behind me before he has to ask. The handcuffs squeeze my wrists as he clasps them then shoves me toward the exit of the bar.
On the fourth ring, Ripley finally answers, “Hello?”
“Hey—”
